


a collection of short stories

by transbuck



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Twins, Angst, Apologies, Face Punching, Fluff, Gen, Homeless John, Minor Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parenthood, i still dont know how to tag help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transbuck/pseuds/transbuck
Summary: a bunch of short stories i write, mostly about frances laurens and mostly about my au in which her and john are twins etc etc





	1. 01.

**Author's Note:**

> hm. this first one is for an au my twin has in which johns homeless. its painful, but heres some rare purity from it

Frances worked at the police station near her apartment. Well, more accurately, she  _ volunteered  _ there. The reason she even decided to do so in the first place was because of her missing brother, John. Her best friend, Aaron, had caused her to remember how she and John used to always talk about moving to New York together after high school -- if he  _ was  _ still alive, then he’d probably be there. She also figured that, if John was in New York, then maybe, for one reason or another, he’d be brought to the station. After several months volunteering with officers Lafayette and Mulligan, she kind of gave up hope on finding John, but she stayed at the station. She stayed for Laf and Mulligan. They were delightful people, Frances had soon come to realize. They treated her kind of like she was their daughter, which felt… Nice. It felt nice to be loved like that. So there she stayed, hope lost and a deep sadness in her.

One day, though, something peculiar happened.

Frances had decided to stay later than she usually did at the station. Why? She did not know. There was some kind of compelling urge to do so, she guessed. She decided to stay late, in one of the backrooms, filing some paperwork that Laf had so kindly asked her to do (and honestly, who could say no to their face? Not Frances, that’s for sure) and she didn't feel like she could leave until she made a significant dent in the filing.

She slows to a halt at one point, a paper in her hands that she has no idea where exactly she’s supposed to put it. Laf said there might be a few of those -- they called them  _ gray papers _ because, really, they could go anywhere. She couldn’t help but want to ask, though, where they wanted it to go -- she was a big fan of trying to do things right to make people happy. So, she walked out of the back room into the front of the station, trying to track down Laf (or maybe even Mulligan) to ask them where they thought it should go.

When she got to the front, though, she saw something she didn’t expect to see. Laf and Mulligan were talking to two guys, those two guys looking dejected and maybe about her age. One of them looked familiar, though, which struck her as odd. The more familiar one (who she soon realized looked a bit like John, which was  _ strange _ ) had his arms crossed over his chest, staring at nothing in particular, while the other boy stared at the officers straight on, looking rather pissed.

Frances was a bit cautious, a bit nervous, to interrupt Laf, but every moment spent standing nervously was a moment where she wasn’t working -- and since her brother’s disappearance, she worked endlessly to avoid the feeling of brokenness that came with missing him. So, after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she stepped behind Laf and carefully poked their shoulder. “Laf? I have a question,” she asks, the gray paper clutched tightly to her chest. When she spoke, she could feel the familiar guy’s eyes on her, but she was too scared to meet them, too scared that he’d look so much like John that she could vomit.

“Yes,  _ ma cherie _ ? What can I help you with?” Laf asks, and Frances lets out a sigh of relief, glad that they’re not upset with theirs and Mulligan’s lecture of the two boys being briefly interrupted.

“So, uh, this paper,” Frances starts, hands the paper in question to Laf, who looks at it carefully. “It’s one of those gray papers you told me about. And I was wondering if there was a specific folder you wanted me to put it in or…?”

Laf’s about to reply when the familiar boy speaks, quietly but not quiet enough that she can’t hear him, and her stomach immediately drops to the floor. “What’s your name? You sound familiar,” The boy asks while Frances tries so hard not cry because his voice sounds _ so  _ much like her brother, her Jacky.

Slowly, oh so slowly, she turns to face him, refuses to meet his eyes no matter how strong the urge is to do so. “Frances. Frances Laurens,” she says, perhaps a bit shakily, doesn’t see the almost  _ proud _ looks that Laf and Mulligan get on their faces. The boy looks briefly shocked, perhaps a little bit scared, gives Frances a very wide-eyed look while the boy next to him looks very confused. Laf and Mulligan give each other a weird look, not sure where the look on the boy’s face came from.

The boy slowly stands up, much to Frances’ confusion, looks like he just might start crying. He soon pulls her into a hug and, for a brief moment, Frances is even  _ more  _ confused. But then she looks like she has a revelation -- that familiar warmth, that familiar feeling of loving arms around her, this  _ has  _ to be her brother. Why else would he look so familiar? “Franny,” he whispers, holds her impossibly tight.

“Jacky,” Frances replies, easily winds her arms tightly around John, tries not to cry into his shoulder, but fails miserably at that. Her shoulders shake a little bit with her sobbing and she can feel John start to cry against her too. Her knees weaken and she guesses that John’s do, too, because soon enough, they’re both collapsed on the floor, Frances curling into John’s lap. “I missed you.  _ God _ , I missed you. I tried looking for you. Everyday. For over five years. I can’t believe you’ve been here the whole time!”

John doesn’t say anything, just holds onto Frances impossibly tighter, rocks her from side to side as he cries into her shoulder. Laf and Mulligan look briefly worried, but then they remember how both Frances  _ and  _ John had told them about their long lost twin. Really, they should’ve guessed that Frances and John were talking about each other, what with how similar they look, but until now, they had never seen them in the same room as each other.

Frances pulls away after a while, still close to John, puts her hands on his face. “You’re really here,” she murmurs, almost in shock as she traces all of his features, tries to refamiliarize herself with his face. “You still look the same.”

“Same with you,” John whispers, brushes loose curls out of Frances’ face. “You don’t look like you’ve changed a bit. You just look…  _ tired _ . Have you been sleeping?”

Frances frowns, hands pausing on his cheekbones. “Not much. Haven’t been able to get a good night’s rest in five years. I’ve been looking  _ tirelessly  _ for you. Before mama died, we used to drive around the city and I’d put up ‘missing person’ posters everywhere that I could. We never stopped looking.”

“Mama died?” John asks, eyes wide with a frown.

“Yeah. Just a few months after your ‘funeral,’ after we had turned sixteen. And then some months after mama’s funeral,  _ Jemmy _ died,” Frances says, frowning and more tears glistening in her eyes as she recalls the deaths of some of the most important people to her.

“God, I’m so sorry,  _ hermana _ . I wish I had been there,” John whispers, hands easily threading through Frances’ hair.

“That reminds me. Why the  _ hell  _ did you leave, jerk?” Frances says, a bit louder than she had intended to, looks a bit angry.

“I didn’t  _ want  _ to leave, asshole,” John replies, brows furrowed with his anger and hurt towards Frances.

“Why. The. Hell. Did. You. Leave?” Frances repeats her previous question, looking more and more upset by the moment. Laf, Mulligan, and the other boy are starting to look very concerned.

“Dad made me, okay? He made me,” John says, the last sentence way quieter than the one before it. “He got really mad at me for whatever reason and just… Kicked me out. And I was too scared to try and come back. I’m sorry, I wish things had been different. But it was all because of Dad.”

“Jesus fuck, now I  _ really  _ look like an asshole,” Frances mumbles, sad look in her eyes as her hands drift down to John’s shoulders. “I  _ knew  _ something was fishy about the whole situation. He never seemed too keen on trying to find you. And if anything, he looked almost…  _ Smug _ , at your funeral. He’s fucking  _ dead _ . I hope he  _ chokes _ . What a fucking prick.” She frowns when she notices that her gradually getting louder has given John a sort of scared look on his face, eyes wide with fear. “Sorry. I’m just… Mad. I’m mad that he robbed me of you. I’m mad that he robbed you of a decent last five years of your life. I’m mad that mama and Jemmy spent their final days trying to find you while Dad knew the whole time exactly what happened. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” John says weakly. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s not your fault. I know you did everything you could. It’s okay.” He finally seems to take notice of Laf, Mulligan, and the boy that was seated next to him all watching them curiously. He eyes the boy for a brief moment before turning back to Frances. “Fran. This is Alex. He’s my best friend,” he says, pointing to the now-named boy, who pushes himself off the chair he was in to kneel next to John.

"Alexander Hamilton,” Alex says, holds out his hand for Frances to shake, which she does almost shyly. “I’m glad to finally meet my boy’s sister that he’s talked so much about. Or, so little, really. He doesn’t talk much.” He says the last sentence in a harsh whisper towards Frances, smiles when John glares at him.

“Have you kept Jack safe?” Frances asks immediately, eyes Alex curiously. He nods and Frances seems relieved. “Good. That’s all I ever needed to know -- that he was safe. It’s, uh, it’s a pleasure to meet the guy who’s kept my Jacky safe and alive for me to find.” Alex seems to beam a little when Frances calls him a  _ guy _ , gives John a brief look of excitement.

“Of course. Anything to get to see this guy smile,” Alex says, smiles cheekily as he pinches John’s cheek, gets batted away by him. “I’m glad that you two are back together again.”

“I’m glad, too,” John whispers, smiles shyly at Frances. “I’m glad to have you with me again.”

“Me, too,  _ hermano _ , me, too,” Frances replies easily, gives John a shy smile to match his own. “Where are you staying? Both of you.”

John and Alex share a  _ look _ . “Uh,” Alex says, “on the streets? In an alley?”

Frances gets an indignant look on her face, eyebrows furrowed. “Alright, y’know what? You two are staying with me now. I’ve got a guest bedroom, y’all can share it, or one of y’all can share with me. Either way, you two  _ have  _ to come with me.”

“I don’t wanna imp-” John was  _ going  _ to say that he didn’t want to  _ impose on her _ , but Frances interrupts him immediately.

“Nonsense! I’ve got  _ plenty  _ of room! And I  _ insist _ , it’s rather lonely at my apartment. And besides! I need my Jacky with me! And there's no way in  _ hell  _ that I'm going to separate y'all. I'm not letting you get separated from someone you care about ever again,” Frances starts off loud and determined as she speaks, slowly trails off towards the end as she carefully strokes John's cheek with her thumb.

“I'm not opposed to that, if you don't mind,” Alex murmurs shyly, looks from Frances to John.

After a long while of Frances and Alex looking at John hopefully, he sighs. “Only if you're sure that it's no problem. I don't wanna make you feel uncomfortable, Fanny,” John murmurs nervously.

“Oh, haven't heard  _ that  _ name in a while,” Frances mumbles absently. “But I am. Sure, I mean. It's lonely at home and I'd love to give the both of y'all a place to stay until… I dunno, until y'all can afford a decent place. Stay with me as long as y'all need to, okay?”

John and Alex both nod, Alex quickly bursting into an excited grin. Frances and John give him a confused look before he throws his arms around both of the twins. “I'm just so happy! I'm happy that you guys are together again! And I'm happy that you're so generous, Frances!”

“I'm happy, too. I'm so happy to have my Jacky back,” Frances says quietly, face red with embarrassment, throws her arms around both of the boys.

And if Laf and Herc take a few pictures of them all together looking oh so happy, no one needed to know.


	2. 02.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is a good day really too much to ask for? it must be

Martha Manning really got the short end of the stick in life.

Of course it wasn’t enough that she had a kid at twenty-two, before she was even ready for one. Of course Life had to throw more shit at her. Of course the father of her kid left. Of course he never contacted her. Of course he never visited. Of course he never contacted their daughter. Of course he was gone for ten years and counting.

Martha thought she deserved at least one good day. That didn’t  _ seem  _ like too much to ask for, but clearly, according to Life, it was. She had a sum total of  _ two  _ good things in her life: her daughter and her career. But even then, her daughter and her career brought on a lot of stress for her.

Frances-Eleanor Manning was a good kid. Really, she was. She was smart, she was brave, she was selfless (a little too much like her father, Martha always thought). But Frances-Eleanor never seemed to know when to quit.  _ Especially  _ when it came to her father. Frances-Eleanor wrote and sent letters to her father three times a week. Frances-Eleanor asked everyone she knew to tell her about her father. Frances-Eleanor wanted nothing more than just to know her father, and the fact that she didn’t broke Martha’s heart.

Martha remembers distinctly a day a little while before Frances-Eleanor’s tenth birthday. She remembers Frances-Eleanor saying that, well, since turning  _ ten  _ is a big deal, then maybe Dad will come back then. Oh, how Martha wished that could be the case. Martha had calmly told her that that probably wouldn’t happen, but Frances-Eleanor wasn’t one to give up. She pushed and insisted on the matter until Martha broke, told her that her father wasn’t coming back, that he gave up on them, and more importantly, gave up on  _ her  _ and the so called  _ love  _ they shared. Frances-Eleanor’s curiosity didn’t go away, but she dropped the matter for now. She was much more interested in comforting her crying mother.

Martha had forgotten entirely about the event soon after. She had forgotten just how much it hurt to think of her daughter’s father. That is, until about five months after Frances-Eleanor’s tenth birthday.

It was one of the last few weeks of school left for Frances-Eleanor. She was almost out of the fourth grade and into bigger and better things, like being in  _ fifth  _ grade. She was very excited about that. Martha had taken the day off from work. She’d needed a break after the long and grueling case she just worked. She was perfectly content to laze around all day, perhaps even take a few cat naps, but that clearly wasn’t allowed as the doorbell rang, followed by a few rather frantic sounding knocks. That struck Martha as extremely odd. Frances-Eleanor didn’t get home from school until a couple hours from now.  And even at that, her daughter didn't need to knock -- she had a key. But whoever was at the door was nothing if not persistent, which annoyed Martha to no end. So, she got out of her comfortable spot on the couch to go see who was so desperate for her to open the door.

When she opened the door and saw that painfully familiar face on the other side, all sorts of emotions came back to her in a whirlwind. Most of all was rage. Before the man on the other side of the door could even get a word out, Martha was reeling back and punching him as hard as she could directly in the nose. She could hear a faint  _ crack  _ and was vaguely proud of that. She was also proud that she sent the man stumbling back a bit, him holding his likely aching nose. After a moment, that pride melted away and soon became worry. God, she really hated that she cared so much about people.

“Not quite the reintroduction I was hoping for, but okay,” the man says, slowly straightening up. “Jesus, didn’t know you had an arm like  _ that  _ on ya.”

Martha can see blood trickling out from underneath his hand and down his chin and promptly freaks out. “Oh, my God!” she exclaims, hands waving about nervously. “Oh, my God, I’m  _ so  _ sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure?” the man replies. “But don’t be sorry. I very clearly deserved that.”

The worry in Martha soon subsides and now it’s back to anger. “ _ Yeah _ , you really  _ do  _ deserve that. And  _ worse _ , if I’m being entirely honest.”  Martha places a hand on her hip, the other pointing accusatorily at the man, jabs him in the chest, sending him stumbling back again. “I thought you were too  _ good  _ for me, John Laurens.”

“Yikes, full name,” John mumbles to himself, tugs at the collar of his shirt. Martha glares at him. “I’m not-- I never thought that I was too good for you, babygirl.”

“Nope,” she says immediately. “You lost the privilege to call me that when you  _ left  _ for  _ ten and a half years  _ and  _ never  _ contacted or visited. If you’re not too good for me, then why the hell is this the first time I’ve heard from you since before  _ my  _ daughter was born, huh?”

“Well, to be fair, she’s  _ our  _ daughter,” John says and gets promptly cut off before he can continue on.

“No!” Martha shouts. “You  _ left _ . You know what? She wrote to you  _ three times a week _ . Every single goddamn week. Never missed a  _ single  _ day. And did you ever write her back?” John’s about to reply, but Martha cuts him off again. “Hell no you didn’t! She knows  _ jack shit  _ about you, John! You do  _ not  _ get to call her  _ your  _ daughter unless you’re here to stay and you’re gonna be here for  _ her _ .”

“I’m--  _ yes _ , of  _ course.  _ I'm-- I-I want to be here for her. And you, if you'll let me,” John replies almost shyly, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.

“I'll allow you to have some sort of relationship with Fanny, but  _ I _ don't want  _ anything _ to do with  _ you _ . Not after you broke your promise to me,” Martha says, gives John a very no-nonsense look.

“Promise? What promise?” John asks, pulls his hand away from his face.

Martha flinches when she sees all the blood covering the lower half of John's face. She’s surprised that he hasn’t seemed to really notice. Perhaps a small part of her is proud that she’s made him bleed so much. She's briefly wide-eyed, but she quickly composes herself. “You promised me that you would always be here for me, that you'd always remind me of how much you love me. But guess what? The Christmases and the birthdays and the Valentines days and the anniversaries you've missed all say otherwise.”

“I’m-- I'm sorry, Martha,” John says quietly, frowns.

“Sorry doesn't cut it, John,” Martha replies, waves her hand dismissively. “Now come on, get your ass inside. You're bleeding like crazy and I’d feel awful if I didn't clean you up at the very least.” John doesn't manage to get a word out before Martha's grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him inside, closing the door with her shoulder before dragging him into the living room. “Sit. Stay,” she says, points at him and then the couch with a serious look on her face before rushing off to the kitchen to grab a first aid kit.

“I’m not a dog!” John calls after her after he sits down and Martha can practically  _ hear  _ the pout in his voice.

“Sure you’re not,” Martha mutters, mostly to herself, kit, plenty of tissues, and an ice pack in hand. She sits down on the coffee table in front of John, keeps her mind busy with the task of opening the first aid kit, doesn’t let herself look into his eyes because she knows that, if she does, there’s no swimming out of those deep hazel pools.

“It doesn’t hurt,” John says quietly as Martha’s eyes scan over the items in her lap.

“Don’t care,” Martha replies shortly, spares a brief glare towards John. “As soon as the bleeding’s died down and a bandage is on it, then you can leave and never come back.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to leave,” John responds matter-of-factly. “I want to stay here with you, with Fanny.”

“Mm-mm. That’s  _ Frances-Eleanor  _ to you,” Martha says as she starts dabbing up the blood from John’s face. “And I don’t care if you stay in Charleston. You just are  _ not  _ staying here, under any circumstances.”

“Okay, then, I want to stay here with you and  _ Frances-Eleanor _ ,” John replies, wrings his hands nervously in his lap (Martha remembers that being a nervous habit of his). “A-and, why not? Why can’t I stay here with you two?”

“Because I  _ said so _ ,” Martha says curtly, chews on the inside of her cheek so as to keep herself from getting angry at him again.

“That’s not a reason,” John murmurs, frowns.

“Go stay with your sister for all I care, okay?! I just do  _ not  _ want you in my house! I do  _ not  _ want you imposing on mine or my daughter’s life! I do  _ not  _ want you ruining the life I have built for her!” Martha shouts, briefly losing her cool, takes a deep breath to steel herself. “You hurt me, John. I cried so much when I realized you weren’t coming back. You have no  _ idea  _ how many of the women at church gossipped about me driving away my boyfriend when I told him that I was pregnant. I had to work harder than I ever had to before to give Fanny some semblance of a normal life. I had to be both parents for her. And I just… I don’t know if I can ever trust you again. And I’m too scared to have you around to find out if I can. Okay?”

John stares at Martha for a while in stunned silence, eyes wide as she turns her attention completely back to dabbing up the blood. “I’m-- okay. If you don’t want me, that’s okay. I’ll live. I just-- I wanna be there for Frances-Eleanor.  _ Please _ ? I wanna make up for everything I’ve missed with her.”

Martha sighs for a while as she’s cleaned up the last of the blood on John’s face. She lets her eyes fall shut for a moment as she collects the tissues and walks them over to the small trash can she keeps in the living room. “ _ Fine _ ,” she says when she’s sat back down in front of John. “Just… Just leave me out of it, okay? You can do whatever your heart desires with Fanny, but just  _ please _ ,  _ please  _ leave me out of it.”

“Okay, I-- I can do that,” John replies a little sadly. “Just-- I’m-- I’m sorry, okay? I don’t have any excuse for what I did. It was wrong and I’m-- I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Martha says shortly, tenses up for a brief moment. “I don’t think I can forgive you. Not yet, at least. But I appreciate the gesture. I guess.”

John frowns, opens his mouth as if to say something, but decides against it. Instead, he just nods a little bit, stays silent as Martha pulls a bandage out of her first aid kit, carefully presses it against his nose. “Ow,” he grumbles, squirms a little bit.

“Sorry,” Martha murmurs absently as she turns to grab the ice pack. “What have you been doing the past ten years?” she asks quietly, tries to make the situation a little less painfully awkward.

“Med school,” John replies as Martha presses the coldness against his nose. He squeaks a bit at the suddenness, eyes a little wide, and Martha internally curses when her heart melts a little at that. She hated that she missed that little squeak of surprise John had. “I’m, uh-- I’m a pediatrician. Up in New York. What-- what about you?”

“That’s nice,” Martha mumbles, holds the ice pack against John’s face. “I’m a social worker. I help kids without families get good families. It’s-- it’s very rewarding work. But also incredibly stressful.”

“Hm,” John mumbles, doesn’t know what to say after that, Martha would assume.

They fall back into a painfully awkward silence as Martha holds the ice pack firmly and John grunts and squirms. Martha’s so focused on keeping the ice against John’s nose that she doesn’t even hear it when Frances-Eleanor gets home and walks into the living room.

“Mama?” Frances-Eleanor asks, hands on the straps of her backpack. “Who’s this?”

Martha jumps a little while John squeaks and goes wide-eyed. “Hey, sweet pea,” Martha says, regaining her composure. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” Frances-Eleanor replies suspiciously. “Who’s this?” she repeats a bit firmer.

John sends a look towards Martha that’s a mix of panic and heart-melting happiness. She frowns at him before turning her attention back to the ten year old in the room. “This is-- this is your… This is your father, sweetheart.”

Frances-Eleanor instantly lights up, hops up and down where she’s standing. “Really? Oh, Mama, please tell me you’re serious!”

“Unfortunately,” Martha grumbles, perhaps a bit bitterly, and she doesn’t miss that momentary look of sadness on John’s face.

Frances-Eleanor hops up and down again, clasps her hands together excitedly with a smile brighter than sunshine. Martha can feel her heart  _ burst  _ with that smile, not only because she loves her little girl being so undeniably happy so much, but also because it reminds her of how  _ happy  _ John would get whenever he used to see her. Maybe her heart also happens to break a little, but she can’t be certain. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet you! What’s New York like? What was Mama like when you first met her? Oh, I’ve got  _ so  _ many questions for you!”

John sends a worried look towards Martha. She nods, tells him with her eyes that he can answer Frances-Eleanor’s questions, if he’d like. John lets out a little sigh of relief, flashes a half smile towards her for a moment. “If you come and sit next to me, I’ll try to answer any questions you have,” he says shyly, smiles with that grin of excitement on the girl’s face.

“Go put your backpack in your room first, hun,” Martha murmurs and Frances-Eleanor pretends to be extremely put off by it.

Nevertheless, Frances-Eleanor runs off to her room, returns moments later with her shoes and bag left in her room. As soon as she’s back in the living room, she hops onto the couch, sits on her knees next to John, facing him. “Can I ask questions now?”

John gives Martha a brief look. She nods and John turns his head as much as he can to smile at the girl. “Go right ahead.”

“Okay! Okay, um… First question! What’s your name?” Frances-Eleanor asks, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“John Laurens,” John replies, perhaps shyly.

“John Laurens… Laurens, Laurens, Laurens,” Frances-Eleanor repeats, mostly to herself, before smiling wide at John. “I like it! Okay, now, uh… What’s New York like?”

“My friend, uh, Eliza, she always says that it’s the greatest city in the world. And I wholeheartedly agree with that,” John replies, wrings his hands together. Martha can’t help but smile at the exchange. “It’s a pretty place. Lotsa people and lotsa stuff to do.”

“Mama, I wanna go to New York!” Frances-Eleanor exclaims, eyes and smile wide.

“Maybe one day, sweetie,” Martha says, reaches forward to rest her hand on Frances-Eleanor’s cheek.

Frances-Eleanor sticks her tongue out, rests her hand over Martha’s. “No fair,” she grumbles before turning her attention back to John. “Okay. Final question I have for today.” John nods, gestures for Frances-Eleanor to continue. “Why New York?”

“Huh?” John asks, gives the girl a confused look.

“Why’d you go to New York? What does New York have that S.C. doesn’t?” Frances-Eleanor continues, folds her hands in her lap.

“I, uh. It was for college. Med school. Columbia University, to be exact. Prestigious school. Great medical program. And I always hated South Carolina. Wanted to get outta here as soon as I could,” John responds, frowns and looks down at his lap. Martha can’t help but frown too.

Frances-Eleanor is silent for a while, considering his answer. Eventually, she stands up, hands folded behind her back. “I have some homework I should get to,” she says quietly before rushing off towards her room.

“She hates me, doesn’t she?” John asks once Frances-Eleanor’s left the room.

“I wouldn’t say that she  _ hates  _ you,” Martha says nervously. “It’s more like she…”

“Can’t stand me?” John offers, gives Martha a sad look.

“...Probably. And I really don’t blame her. It’s been ten  _ years,  _ John. I-- Maybe one day, she’ll be able to forgive you. She doesn’t know you like I do-- did-- so she doesn’t have, like… an  _ image  _ of you in her mind. It’s like she’s meeting a stranger who happens to be her father,” Martha says, pulls the ice pack away from John’s face and sets it in her lap.

“What about you? If she might be able to forgive me, would you?” John asks with just the tiniest hint of desperation lining his voice.

“I don’t know, John,” Martha replies firmly. “You should go.”

“But Martha--”

“You should  _ go,  _ John. This is all too much for me. I need time. Just go.”

John opens and closes his mouth, tries to find something,  _ anything  _ to say. Martha gives him a very significant look, so he sighs in defeat and nods. “Just-- call me. My number’s the same,” he murmurs, tenses for a brief second before turning to leave out the front door.

Once she hears the door shut, Martha holds her head in her hands, lets out a breath. “So much for a calm day, huh?” she says to herself, shuts her eyes and tries not to let the tears fall.


End file.
